


Grateful

by temporalgambit



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 07:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12552400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalgambit/pseuds/temporalgambit
Summary: Keith is lactose-intolerant. Pidge is the real MVP.





	Grateful

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt:
> 
> "just saw a post "calculating" how lactose intolerant keith would be with all his different heritages mixed together, galra included (on a scale from 1-5, it would be like a 10). could you do something with him getting a really bad tummy ache because he ate some altean food that had lactose in it but he didn't realize it? and maybe pidge being the real mvp and taking care of him because he doesn't want to admit to the others that his stomach hurts so bad"

_Nobody_ is in a good mood as they dock their lions. They’re tired, cranky, and—quite frankly—sick of looking at each other. The gloominess permeating the silence over the comms is all but tangible, as if some unwritten agreement has been constructed among the five to avoid talking about their disaster of a mission.

Spending nine days searching a swampy planet for an alien race that had apparently moved on to _another_ planet will do that to you.

They’d wanted to form an alliance with the people on planet F’wai. A small population of master mathematicians, Allura had compared their skill to having a thousand more Pidges on their side. It was supposed to be easy, in-and-out, with diplomacy leading the way.

Instead, they were nowhere to be found.

At least they’d had the enough forethought to leave a note. Under six feet of sludge in the middle of the marsh. Written on a rock in what looked suspiciously like crayon.

If Keith never sees another space mosquito in his life, it will be too soon.

The showers are long, the paladins are hungry. Dinner could be literally _anything_ in the palace, and it still would be better than the rations they’d had during their trek. The familiarity of food goo would be fine compared to—

They arrive to an incredible sight laid out on the table.

It _has_ to be some kind of mass hallucination.

But then it’s not. “It’s dessert for dinner!” Coran announces, a gleam in his eye.

“Wh—why?” Lance’s eyes are as wide as they’ll go.

“We knew how terrible of a time you had on your latest mission, so we thought we could whip up something special to welcome you back,” Allura is beaming. “Dig in!”

The past nine days shaken off, nobody has to be told twice.

The tension in the air has somewhat abated, and Keith is just glad to be able to breathe properly again. He has a little bit of some big cookie-like thing, then a piece of fluorescent pink cake. It’s weird and unlike anything he’s ever experienced before, with big chunks of some sort of dried fruit.

However, the greatest dessert by far is one of the least conspicuous ones. It’s some kind of gelatinous pie, and he’s pretty sure it’s the best thing he’s tasted in _months_. Something must show on his face, because Coran sidles up to him to chat. “One of my personal favorites. Do you like it?”

“It’s really good,” Keith agrees, “Is this part made of the same fruit as that thing?” he points to the crumbly layer on the outside, then to the brightly-colored cake.

“It is! Good eye, Keith!” Keith has to laugh at the pride in his voice. “The crust is made from the compressed insides of the Dintax fruit, and the filling is the chilled milk of the—”

Wait. _“What?”_

Coran blinks. “…the milk of the Boolt. It’s a hairy, six-legged creature found on Altea, and its milk is some of the most nutritious in the galaxy!”

“But it’s…orange…” Keith scrutinizes the pie, looking for any resemblance to the creamy texture of regular milk.

“Well, your _Earth_ milk is supposedly white, so which is _really_ the strange one around here?” Coran jabs back, an edge of playfulness in his tone.

Keith forces a smile. “You’re right, Coran. Thanks for the food,” and he rises stiffly from the table.

 _It’ll be fine,_ he tries to tell himself, _Alteans probably don’t even have lactose anyway._ It would be _crazy_ for a race of people billions of miles away from home to have the same pesky component to their diets, right? Right. Definitely. Everything is going to be _fine_.

His inner voice doesn’t sound particularly convinced.

But there’s nothing he can do about it now. The deed has been done, and it’s too late to change it. He’ll just have to wait and see. He excuses himself quietly, exchanging the company of the revived paladins for the silence of the halls. He feels several pairs of eyes on his back, but steels himself and does not turn around.

In the meantime, maybe he’ll just walk. Quietly. Alone. Until something happens. Or doesn’t happen. Either way.

…It’s been one minute exactly and the stress is already upsetting his stomach.

Fantastic.

* * *

It doesn’t take long.

He’s been pacing the halls for maybe a half hour when a particular sense of unease washes over him.

_It’s fine, it’s just stress, there’s no guarantee that—_

His stomach gurgles audibly, and that’s all the warning he gets before it _cramps_.

He goes completely still, riding out the discomfort with a hand pressed to his belly. He can feel angry churning beneath his palm and knows he’s going to be in this for the long run.

When the pain subsides, he turns in the direction of his quarters—only one long hall away—so he can hide out and be miserable on his own for a while.

Walking makes it worse. Though to be fair, breathing and thinking and existing on this corporeal plane makes it worse, too. He feels _icky_ , bloated and nauseous, knowing there’s no chance of relief in the near future. That’s what’s so awful about lactose intolerance—once the symptoms set in, there’s nothing you can do but wait until your digestive system stops freaking out. It’s infuriating.

Thoroughly irritated, his guts rumble _loud_ as he turns into the hallway where the sleeping quarters are. He flinches a bit at the noise, thanking whatever deity might be out there that nobody is around to hear. All he has to do is get to his room, which is—

“Keith?”

He jumps about a foot in the air, which does absolutely nothing to settle his roiling insides. He turns around to find the green paladin standing at her own door. “Hey, Pidge.” Hopefully she hadn’t heard—

“Was that your _stomach?_ ”

He can feel the façade crumbling down. “No?”

“Hm,” Pidge isn’t buying it, “that’s weird. I thought for s—”

An angry growl cuts her off. She blinks. Keith flushes pink.

“O-kay…” Keith can hear her mind running calculations, “so the Altean food doesn’t agree with your tummy.”

He covers a burp with his hand, and his blush deepens. “Yeah…Coran said something about there being milk, so…”

Recognition flashes over her face, then sympathy. “Oh, no wonder…well, why don’t we tell Allura? There might be some Altean thing that—”

He’s shaking his head before she even finishes. “It’s embarrassing.”

Another moment of thought, then, “You wanna come in here, then?” she gestures towards her own room. “I think I have something that might help.”

He wants to say no, because this is awful and he really, really doesn’t want anyone to see him like this. But then again, Pidge already knows…and if there’s really something she can do to make this any less awful than it currently is… He nods.

“Come on in,” she waits until he steps past her to close the door. “You can lay on my bed and unbuckle your belt and everything.” He blanches slightly, and she stares. “It’s killing you, right? Don’t be so shy.” Without waiting for a response, she’s rooting around in a box for…something.

Keith does as he’s told, feeling oddly vulnerable laid out on the bed like this, but taking the external pressure off of his belly really _does_ help lessen the ache. Pidge cheers as she unearths whatever she’d been looking for. It’s some kind of rectangular thing that looks like it’s made out of cloth, except it has a cord? He’s just about to ask her when she turns around to explain.

“It’s a heating pad! Kind of like a hot water bottle, but electric. I made it myself,” she beams in pride. “I use it for… _stuff_ …” he catches her drift pretty quickly, “and it’s really good for cramps. You want to try it?”

“Definitely.”

She unwinds the cord and plugs it in, handing the soft fabric part to him. “Hold it where it hurts,” and with that, she grabs a notepad and pencil and sits cross-legged on the floor. He realizes belatedly that she’s trying to give him a little space despite their close quarters, and gratitude floods through him.

It heats up almost immediately, and he’s pleasantly surprised to find that it does lessen the cramping. It’s not enough to eliminate it altogether, but it makes the tight, nauseating sensation writhing around in his stomach a little more bearable. Aside from that, it’s warm and kind of relaxing. In combination with Pidge’s presence, it helps soothe away some of the anxiety that comes along with feeling so sick.

The only problem is, it’s making the rest of him feel too hot and a little drowsy, which is unpleasant when combined with the ever-present nausea.

He finds himself speaking before he knows where he’s going with the words, “Pidge, can we…talk?”

He can’t quite read her expression when she looks up at him. “About what?”

Shifting uncertainly and readjusting the heating pad, he can’t come up with a good topic. “Anything?” he finishes lamely. “I’m trying to keep my mind off of…” a vague gesture towards himself.

“Oh! Sure, sure,” she hums, thinking to herself.

Then, suddenly, a barrage of questions. “What’s your favorite color?” Red. “Favorite animal?” Cats. “Favorite thing about living in space?” It’s really big, and there’s a lot to see. “Favorite Earth weather?” Breezy.

As far as keeping him distracted, it works. Not only that, but she’s asking questions that he’s never really thought about before. Even though it’s mostly trivial things, he’s surprised by how little he’s ever taken the time to consider these things about himself.

Even better, though, is getting to know Pidge when he starts asking her questions in return. “Favorite school subject?” Math. “Best place you’ve ever been on Earth?” D.C.. “Favorite flower?” Tiger lily.

Again, none of it really _matters_ in the grand scope of things, but it’s weirdly nice to get to know one of his teammates (Shiro excepted) at this kind of base level.

Eventually, though, his thoughts become hazy, and he begins to stumble over his words, tongue too slow to keep up with what he’s trying to articulate. He realizes with some level of disappointment that he’s falling asleep. He hiccups a little, but is too tired to feel ashamed over it.

Pidge, however, takes the cue to just continue talking. She gets it. He drifts. She talks.

Despite knowing he’s not out of the woods yet, Keith is grateful.


End file.
